Metamorphosis
by singingcagedbird
Summary: The name's Kyra. And I'm a new animal.  oh, when they come for me, come for me, i'll be gone...


_I am not a pattern to be followed_

_The pill that I'm on  
>Is a tough one to swallow <em>

They say that girls are made of sugar and spice and everything nice.

I say that's bullshit. Maybe Jack used to be something nice, but I'm not Jack anymore. I don't know who I am anymore, but I'm sure as hell not Jack. Jack was a persona; Jack was a front. Jack was weak—too weak. I'm made of something different now, though. I'm all sharp edges and metal, ice-cold one minute and molten lava the next. If I had to guess what I'm made of, I'd say steel and fire and full-blown rage, because I'm sick and tired of a world that uses me and sells me and slaves me out. That world can go to hell, and I'll be happy to send it there, starting with the Rukengalls that put these scars on my back and these burns on my skin and this hate in my heart. Four kills, and I'm free, and then I go after the mercs that put me here.

I'll save Toombs for last, because I want him to suffer. The only good thing I ever got from the Rukengalls was the ability to inflict pain, and I will use every single torture they ever did to me on that son of a bitch. I'll kill his team before I kill him, though, because they sold me out right along with him.

_I'm not a criminal  
>Not a role model<br>Not a born leader  
>I'm a tough act to follow <em>

The Rukengalls were easy. I killed them one by one, so that each twin could feel the other die. I suppose I'm officially a bad guy now, and I have to say—I like it. Jack was good. Jack was vulnerable. I may not be Jack anymore, but I still look vulnerable. I don't mind, though. It's to my advantage to look sweet and innocent and be anything but. I need to track down the mercs, which means going underground. All I need is a name, because Jack was weak and Jack is dead, and I am not Jack anymore.

Jack was the name my mother gave me—Jacqueline Elizabeth Badd. It sounds like a fairy princess name, and I hate it. Fairy tales don't exist, not for me. Hell, I live in an alley and sleep wherever there's a space. There's this one little street kid who follows me around like I'm the greatest thing since sliced bread, just like I used to do with—no, I'm not going to think about that, not going to think about _him_, because Riddick was Jack's obsession and Jack was weak. But this street kid—her name's Kyra—she's kind of cute, and she needs protecting. I can protect her. She calls me Sarge, because she says I'm tough like a soldier, and I pretend she's my little sister, and I keep her safe while she reminds me that way down underneath all my hate, I'm still human somewhere. It's not pretty down here, not where I live. It's dark and scrappy and ugly. But then again, so am I.

_I am not the fortune and the fame  
>Nor the same person telling you to forfeit the game<br>I came in the ring like a dog on a chain  
>And I found out the underbelly is sicker than it seems<br>And it's seems ugly, but it can get worse  
><em>

I thought I'd fallen as far as someone could fall.

I thought things couldn't get worse than they were.

I thought wrong.

They killed Kyra this morning. I'd put off finding Toombs and them until I found someplace safe for Kyra to stay at. But another crew found me first, and they tried to grab Kyra. They shot her while they were trying to get at me, and I don't even remember how I killed them. I blacked out, and when I could remember anything again, they were all torn to pieces. I have to get off planet. I can't stay here anymore.

'_Cause even a blueprint is a gift and a curse  
>'Cause once you got the theory of how the thing works<br>Everybody wants the next thing to be just like the first  
><em>

I don't want to feel anymore. The only good thing about feeling is feeling happy, and I don't even remember what happiness feels like anymore. Kyra was only six. She didn't deserve this. She was the last thing I had to remind me that somewhere, deep down, I'm still something more than a killer. I'll take her name to hold onto that, but I can only think of one way to stop feeling, and that's to bury that part of me so down deep I barely remember it's there. There's only one place I know where you can lose almost every trace of humanity, and I know what it is and what I have to do to get there. I'm going to be the best damn killer this 'verse has ever seen, and they're going to put me in Crematoria.

If he could see me know, Riddick wouldn't even know me.

_And I'm not a robot  
>I'm not a monkey<br>I will not dance even if the beat's funky  
>Opposite of lazy, far from a punk<br>_

God, it took Toombs and his crew forever to track me down. I don't know how I could have been more obvious. I left a trail of bruises and broken bones and bodies everywhere I went, and it still took them six whole months, the dipshits. Toombs beat me pretty good, but he brought me here to Crematoria, just like I wanted. Kept going on and on the whole trip about what they were going to do a "sweet little thing" like me down here. He has no idea how hard it was to keep from laughing. They've never seen anything like me before.

_Y'all ought to stop talking, _

_Start tryin' to catch up motherfucker  
><em>

It was easier than I thought to get weapons down here. Toombs didn't find half my blades, and I've traded and fought for new ones since I got here. Sometimes, the send the Hell Hounds out. They call it feeding time. The guards film it because they think it's funny to watch us die. They think it's a hell of a lot less funny when somebody kills one of their precious Hell Hounds. They're tough to kill, but there's a spot just above their hearts where a blade slips in like butter. The guards beat me within an inch of my life for that, but it was worth it. Convicts and inmates alike stay away from me since then.

_I am the opposite of whack  
>Opposite of weak<br>Opposite of slack  
>Synonym of hit<br>Synonym of crack  
>Closest to a peak<br>Far from a punk  
><em>  
>They know what I am, here. They call me killer and murderer and psycho and freak, and I just smile and flash the blade I keep in my mouth, and they back away. Sure, the new ones come after me every now and then, the ones looking to prove themselves. They learn soon enough not to mess with me—the ones I leave alive, anyway. And there aren't very many of those.<p>

Riddick said there'd be a doctor here, one who could give me the shine-eyes like his, but he lied about that. Jack would have been angry about that, but I know better. Lies are a part of life. Everybody lies.

_Y'all ought to stop talking, start tryin' to catch up motherfucker  
><em>

I know he'll be back here soon enough. He'll be pissed at Jack for fucking up and getting caught. Maybe he'll try and knock some sense into Jack—actually, I know he will. I can't wait for him to take a swing at me, because he won't know what hits him except that it's not Jack, because Jack was weak. Jack was too weak, and Jack is gone, and I'm Kyra now. I'm a new animal.

_Oh when they come for me  
>Come for me<br>I'll be gone_

* * *

><p>AN: I'm thinking about working on a multi-chaptered version of this...it would start pretty much right after Pitch Black ends, fill in the gap between Pitch Black and Riddick, and go until Kyra/Jack dies at the end of Riddick. Thoughts? Let me know in the reviews!


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